


We Are.

by missfortunesirprize



Category: Captain America (Movies), the winter soldier - Fandom
Genre: F/F, Genderswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2015-11-05
Packaged: 2018-04-30 03:29:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5148620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missfortunesirprize/pseuds/missfortunesirprize
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She is.<br/>She is.<br/>They are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Are.

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing.

Her eyes shine bright under the lights on the roof, sparkling with secrets that only she knows and the smile that spreads across her face is temptation and danger all wrapped into one, reflected in her steps when she walks closer and wraps her hand around the glass in her hand, fingers slipping on the water dripping off the slick surface. 

She's the Devil personified, charming and drawing in all the people around her with a quick smile and a heated look, bedroom eyes perfected and the way she has their eyes following her when she moves on, sticking in their minds with the strongest glue. 

When she's fixing the apartment her hands are works of art, splashed with oil and grease, black streaks along the softly tanned skin in random patterns and the concentration on her face is something that can only be compared to an artist putting the finishing touches on a masterpiece, endlessly patient and serene at the same time. 

She's an avenging angel, swooping down to deal out punishment to those who prey on the less fortunate, eyes blazing with anger and hatred and the sounds of her knuckles connecting with skin echoes through the air, only stopping when they're on the ground begging for it to be over. 

She's a seductress, pressing wrists down into the bed and looming over him with a sly smile on her face, endless expanses of skin exposed for fingertips to slide over and map out, shifting so her legs are pressed down into the mattress on either side of hips, curling their fingers together and dragging them down her ribs and up under her skirt, sighing out when they hit all the right spots.

She's a steady hand, fingers curled around the trigger and aiming with deadly accuracy, bullets hitting their marks in chests, buried deep into shoulders and ripping gashes into skulls. She's a dancing warrior, spinning and twirling her way through battlefields, cutting down everyone that gets in her way. 

She's a nurse, stitching wounds back together and pulling broken pieces back where they should be. Blankets wrapped around shoulders and hot cups of tea pressed into frozen fingers, bandages wrapped around limbs with soft kisses pressed on top, firm fingers rubbing feeling back into numb hands and body heat chasing away the chill from a chest pressed up again her back. 

She's unstoppable, bringing down empires and entire regimes with her force and skill, breaking them apart from the inside and dancing in the burning ashes left behind. A silent omen of death, a glint of silver and the scrape of metal before the life leaves their bodies, rushing out in the quick impact of a bullet, the choking slice of a blade across a throat, the sizzling of skin going up in flames. 

She's a small form against the wall, curled up against the hard concrete with one hand buried deep into the knotted mess of her hair and further inspection shows that she rocks forward and backward slowly, crying almost silently with the tears running down her face and mixing into the dirty fabric of the clothes she's wearing, stolen from a charity bin. Her eyes are wide and scared, accentuated by the dark shadows under her eyes when their eyes lock together and her voice echoes through the air, rasps like it hasn't been used in decades and the words sound like the sweetest song in the world, "Steve. I remember."

***

The play of shadows over her face when she moves is like a hypnotizing dance, accentuating the dips and planes of her pale skin and her fingernails digging into sensitive skin feels like home and freedom all wrapped up into one. Looking across with a scared look on her face, hands wrapped around the grimy metal and muscles straining against the tight clothes, she flies through the air like she was born to do it. 

She's a warrior, standing up for the less fortunate and not the least bit afraid to fight for them, dropping into a bloody and bruised heap on the ground before rough hands reach down to pull her up, dust her off and inspect the split skin on her knuckles that she insists isn't a bother. 

She's a fighter, struggling to keep the scream trapped in her throat when her bones crack and melt into nothing only to be regrown again, pushing out of her skin as they grow and break and grown again, forcing her muscles to split and shred into pieces, dying and living and dying all over again. The air smells like copper and hot metal, all mixed together into one nauseating cloud that hovers around her in the too-small space. 

She's a lover, an arm around a shoulder and a hand curled into a protective fist on a stomach, pressed chest to back with barely an inch of space between, synchronised breathing to the same rhythm while she closes her eyes, relaxes her body and sleeps, never letting go in fear of waking up alone. 

She's wrath, dropping from the sky and tearing down everything in her path, closing her emotions off until the job is done and no one is left standing. Her heart rate barely rises and her movements are quick and precise, aiming fir incapacitation instead of death, quick punches to the head to knock out or arms wrapped tight around a throat to cut the air supply off until fingers stop scratching at her hands and eyes dropped closed against their will. 

She's comfort, a hand wrapped around a wrist during a funeral, an arm around a waist on a bad day, fingers through hair on a bad night. She's a conversation that doesn't need words, made up of a series of expressions and head tilts, touches that could mean nothing and everything. She's security when she's against the wall, back scratching against the cold tile when she pulls until she's caged in, tipping her head back and pushing up onto her toes when lips drag down her neck and she's made of low growls and sighs when teeth bite down until it hurts. 

She's a work of art when she smiles, eyes crinkling up at the corners and twinkling in the dim light, elbow flicking out to jab hard into ribs, tips her head and the glass back, draining it in one quick movement and raising her fingers up for another. The movement of her fingers when she taps them against the worn wood of the bar is quick and almost melodic, and her hands when they wrap around the rough woven fabric handles are gleeful, determined and sure at the same time. 

She's an open book, the twitch in her fingers when she wants to do something she thinks she shouldn't, the lowering of her eyes when she doesn't want to be caught in a lie, the quirk at the corner of her mouth hiding laughter and the trembling in her legs saying 'now', the white of her knuckles and the glimmer of tears in her eyes that mean 'Don't leave me'.

She's a beaten mess on the surface underneath her when she reaches up with both hands, wrapping them hard around strong wrists even as one of them slams into her face, swelling up the side of her face and sending blood pooling into her mouth. The sound of snapping and cracking is the only sound that fills her ears when she looks up, squinting through the swollen eye and clenching her teeth together, forcing her hands back down to where they were. Her hair is spilling around her, stained red in places and pulling painfully where it's trapped underneath her shoulder, spread out like a waterfall of gold, and when she opens her mouth the words that flow out are broken and defeated too, barely higher than a whisper. "Then do it. Because I'm with you 'til the end of the line."


End file.
